A Very Cryptid Christmas, page 1
A Very Cryptid Christmas
D. S. Dane
Su Fertall
Victoria Raschke
D. B. Sieders
Gemma Snow
E. C. Spaur
Lulu M. Sylvian
Wednesday Wheeler
Copyright © 2022
D. S. Dane, Su Fertall, Victoria Raschke, D. B. Sieders, Gemma Snow, E. C. Spaur, Lulu M. Sylvian, Wednesday Wheeler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Second Chance Krampusnacht
by D. S. Dane
Introduction
Chapter 1
About the Author
A Squonk to Remember
by Su Fertall
Introduction
Trigger Warnings
Chapter 1
Epilogue
About the Author
Climb Every Mountain Goat
by Victoria Raschke
Introduction
Chapter 1
About the Author
A Waterhorse for Winter
by D. B. Sieders
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About the Author
Devil Take Her: Claimed by the Jersey Devil
by Gemma Snow
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Make Her Scream
by Gemma Snow
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About the Author
A Lizardman for Christmas
by E. C. Spaur
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
About the Author
Horny for the Holidays
by Lulu M. Sylvian
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author
Bigfoot, Bigger Heart
by Wednesday Wheeler
Introduction
Christmas Eve
Next Christmas Eve
About the Author
Second Chance Krampusnacht
by D. S. Dane
©2022 D. S. Dane
Introduction
During a brandy-fueled holiday tryst, Sabine realizes what her small-town’s Christmas-obsessed mayor really is. Her neighbors owe the Christmas demon their very existence, so she dutifully keeps his secret. After four years away, she returns for the Internationally-renowned Krampusnacht Parade to properly seduce him. To make him hers, she has to tell him what she knows, but will the revelation scare him away and deprive her neighbors of the magic they need to survive?
Chapter 1
“Remembrance, like a candle, burns brightest at Christmastime.”
— Charles Dickens
* * *
Four fucking years.
That is how long it has been since I saw her beauty grace this town square.
Her dreadlocks are shorn now. She wears her hair in the handsome burgundy pixie cut like modern Austrians do. Her eyeliner and lipstick are softer, more neutral against her dark, burnished skin. It glows now. She glows now. Her whole being has a softness that she kept hidden before.
That means I have won, even if I have lost her.
Not that I ever had her.
A Christmas demon could never have someone like her.
I cannot bring myself to drop my gaze, so when she spots me, she knows I have already seen her.
“Herr Krampus!” she calls out as she breaks into a run. The clip clop of her high-heeled boots, so fashionable and so out of place among the cobblestones of this small West Virginia village, cut through the revving of parade floats testing their engines in the frosty December air. The other Krampuses turn to glance her way, but she is looking at only me. “Wait up!”
“I hoped you’d be here. Wow, you look genuinely terrifying!” she says, reaching out to stroke my fur cloak. Her words puff out in thick white clouds as she catches her breath. Her gaze drops to my hands, and she winks. “Great chains, too. Very realistic.”
They cut into my palms as I grasp as tight as I can to ground myself. I do not know why I let myself think she had forgotten about that night. Forgotten about me.
Her hand lingers. “It’s so wonderful to see you again. I’ve wanted to come home every Christmas.”
“What kept you?” I ask. The question comes out halting, as if I have not been speaking English for decades now. I sound more accusing than I feel.
“It’s an expensive flight.”
Of course. I could throttle myself. Despite pouring most of my earnings into this town, I still have money coming out of my horns. Or is it ears? Either way, it would have been nothing to pay for her tickets home during the winter breaks.
Of course, she would not have let me. I had to have Herr Untermeyer create three separate foundations to hide that most of her scholarship money is from me. If scholarships were about hard work alone, she would have earned every penny herself, but that is not how the world works, and she has plenty of time to learn that herself.
She wanted to make her own way, even though her potential was stolen from her. This country lined the lungs of everyone in this town with coal dust, and then cast them aside when the mines closed. It is not a handout when things that were taken are restored. It is just… justice. And justice is what Krampuses do.
She would not see it like that. Many things have changed throughout the centuries, but not stubborn Appalachian pride. It will outlast everything.
“Never mind. I’m here now, and I even got myself a sexy little costume for tomorrow’s Krampusnacht Parade!” Her chin lifts as her shoulders shimmy.
Her old hair and lips are gone, but the temptress inside remains.
“I cannot wait to see it,” I say, grateful that in the cold, she cannot tell the way her whole being brings heat to my body.
“Well, I won’t look as good as you in my costume. You’re the OG.”
Right. My costume.
“What is it?” she asks, peering up at me through coal-black feathery lashes. It makes me want to lean in, though I should pull away.
Whatever I was going to say or do, I cannot. I clear my throat. “OG. I am not familiar with that initialism.”
Her laughter sounds like sleigh bells as the clock in the tower chimes five pm. “I’ve got to get home. I’ll tell you tomorrow!”
“Yes, tomorrow,” I say as she clip-clops back across the square. Not until she is out of sight do my hands relax their grip on the chains.
I push away my mother’s hands from the crushed black velvet corset. “Mama, you’re mangling it! This is my first Krampusnacht parade in three years! It has to be perfect!”
She laughs as she holds up a long, thick chain in one hand and black leather high heels that will make my feet look like hooves in the other. “Baby, you look more like a dominatrix than like Herr Krampus.”
“Maybe that’s on purpose,” I say with a grin.
Her jaw drops, and then she laughs. “I thought there was something between you two, before you went to Santa Barbara. Do you think it’s still there?”
The wick of the lit candle on my dresser crackles, then pops, sending a festive whiff of pine and bonfires into the surrounding air. “I hope so.”
“You know,” she begins. I watch her lips purse as she searches for the right words. “You know you don’t owe him anything.”
How can she, of all people, say that? I snap, “We all owe him.”
“Of course,” she says, placing the thick chain and boots back onto the futon. “Collectively, we all owe him. But you don’t owe him any more than the rest of us.”
Worry etches lines at the corner of her mouth. And I get it: she doesn’t want her baby to self-sacrifice for a Christmas demon. But he’s more than that. And I’m not sacrificing.
Krampus gave everyone here their life back. When I was a child, this town was all boarded-up windows surrounded by burnt-out trailers. Mama rarely got off the couch, and I practically grew up in the back of the sheriff’s cruiser. Those things were normal here.
Then Krampus came and together we pried boards from windows and transformed the town square into a Gothic Christmas village. Meth trailers disappeared and in their place we put up eco-friendly vacation cottages. Pothole-ridden streets became swirled cobblestone paths. Like magic, commodity beef from the food pantry disappeared off tables, replaced by sauerbraten with red cabbage and apple. He didn’t just give us wealth, but a whole new future.
I didn’t learn t he true value of that until I left for college. All of my classmates had parents who were lawyers, managers, or data analysts. My roommate pointed out that they knew how to talk to professors because their parents had done it. No one in my family had ever even met a professor. From what my mom told me, my dad didn’t even finish high school.
I distill these thoughts into a simple “I know.”
Her lips purse. It’s what she does when she chooses her words with care. “He still doesn’t know that we all know,” she finally says.
“And that’s the problem,” I reply.
He has a right to know. There can’t be anything real between us if we don’t even have honesty. Us as in me and him, but also us as in him and this town.
“You can’t say anything!” she says, short and sharp. Her hand waves around the house like she wants me to inspect it. Big fireplace. Six feet of Christmas tree covered in Krampus ornaments. Expensive tech. Leather sofa. Fridge full of fresh food. “You can’t say anything, or all this could go away. We can’t risk that. Think of more than just yourself.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I say, connecting the links of chain to the O-ring at the collar around my neck and draping them artistically over my black fur coat. Of course, I’m worried. I remember better than anyone what it was like before. We were one of the poorest in this town, and I’m pretty sure I was one cruiser-ride away from juvie before Herr Krampus showed up.
But I’ve spent three Christmases working in the oppressively sunny hell of Santa Barbara thinking about the last time I was here, and the next time I’d be home in the mountains. It’s not like I don’t have a plan.
Her eyebrows furrow, and that crease between them deepens. “I hope you’re right.”
Before I went off to college, I was too immature. I didn’t understand my feelings, or how to explain them to him. It was just physical, I thought, and he was my first. What should have been a beautiful memory became awkward and stilted because he felt so guilty, like he took something from me when I was the one who wanted him to catch me.
I begged to be chained up. Needed to feel his soft fur against my thighs, and his long tongue--
“Are you okay?” my mom asks as she slides two fingers between my corset and my back. “Is it too tight? You look like you’re not getting enough air.”
“I’m fine, Mama,” I say as I slip my feet into the hoof-boots and blow out the pine candle. “It’s time to go. We don’t want to keep the tourists waiting.”
It takes more energy these days to control the weather, but I manage just enough snowfall to blanket the streets with fresh powder. I make it just cold enough to keep the line around the mulled wine tent long. Around me the spicy scents of the wine and damp leather compete with the expensive smells from Tokyo, Salzburg, and Windhoek.
They come from around the world clamoring for their first view of the Krampusnacht Parade. For the past three years, I scanned the crowd, feeling bittersweet. Bitter, because she was not among them. Sweet because everyone else’s presence and, more importantly, their money, has transformed the town into a place to which I trusted she would return.
And now she has.
I catch her scent, sweet yet bold, before I see her.
And when I see her, I cannot believe my eyes.
I wait for her to say something, to see how her face moves under the makeup and prosthesis.
“I’m going to walk with you as Lady Krampus today.”
The term “Lady Krampus” conjures up Victorian re-imaginings of the prim, long-tongued women who punished bad mustachioed men by whipping them and putting them into wicker baskets on their backs, but that is not how she has styled herself.
No, she has done her best impression of me, only as a woman. She is bewitching, with cat eyes and a pointed chin and prominent brow that draws attention to her old self: raven black eyeliner, plum-red lipstick, and a jaunty hat on top of a wig of thick black and maroon dreadlocks, just like she used to have. A corset and shoulder pads emphasize the curved swell of her body, and on her feet are hooves instead of shoes.
She rattles the chains that connect to a spiked leather collar around her neck. “Come on, I thought you’d love it. Even Santa has a Mrs. Claus.”
Our kind do not have male and female like humankind does. “I do… love it! But that is not tradition.”
She bites her lower lip, pearled white against ruby red, and glances at my chains. I see visions of the past glittering in her eyes. “Isn’t it?”
That night from three years ago today lodges itself at the front of my brain. There is only one way to understand what she is saying. She presents not only herself to me on an engraved pewter platter, but all of my wishes for a companion. For an equal. It is unfair, like waving a steak in front of a starved animal.
But one day, she is going to ask me to take the costume off, and my eyes will not be able to meet the horror in hers when she realizes I cannot.
It was not a costume when she was a teen, impressed by my wicked pointed horns and realistic fur, and it was not a costume the night we sipped too much mulled wine spiked with brandy at the bonfire and she got tangled in my chains.
It makes my mouth water to think about it, and so I push it far from my mind.
Instead, I offer her my arm.
It is merely a parade, and not a marriage offer. Judging by the squeals of excitement and number of phones and cameras pointed at us, Lady Krampus could prove to become a popular addition to the parade.
The drums sound, and it is time to march. Every few steps, I remember to conjure flames in my palms, and spit streams of fire over the heads of the people in the crowd. Their eyes glow as they shriek in fear and delight, but I barely notice.
We walk the parade route, she and I, taking turns roaring at tourists straining against the barriers, and posing for photographs. I live for these parades normally, each one more magical than the next, but today it passes in a blur each time her fingers entwine with mine, and her rounded curves press into me. I barely hear the cacophony of brass from the band behind us, playing arcane winter songs through dented horns and tin drums.
Up ahead, the bonfire crackles, signaling the parade’s end. Lady Krampus offers her wickedest grin as she presses her palms together, clacking long black talons against one another in excitement. For a moment I forget they are fake.
“Come on!” she says.
Oh, the bonfire!
This time, the two of us must not be the last two there.
This time, I will have enough self-control to pull away before I am alone with her.
But of course, we can have one drink. For old times and new. It would be strange not to.
Suspicious, even. I am so tired of being ashamed.
One leads to two, and two to four. Lady Krampus’s fingers brush through my fur as she squeals in delight. “You’re so warm!”
No, this is danger.
“And so furry!” she slurs, pressing her body into mine.
Have to leave.
A wicked grin is followed by a small, rounded bottle of plum brandy pulled out from between her breasts in the corset, warm to the palm. I should have politely averted my gaze.
“Want a sip?”
